tagIllustratedA Woman's Story of Love Ch. 66

A Woman's Story of Love Ch. 66

bymidorigreengrasses©

A woman's story of love in one hundred episodes

Part 66.

"The Real Thing" (G)



This is a short diary page. There's too much to tell and I don't want to squeeze it in a tight space. I can't write quickly. It would be like trying to catch water during rain. You'd miss a lot.

When they were young, Will had more success with women than Mitchell because he was naturally handsome, tall. Women naturally came to him. During their youth and young adulthood, Will was always in one involvement or another, some serious some not, and all Mitchell could do was stand back and watch.

Will didn't lord his advantage over his younger brother (at least not more than anyone would in his position), but Mitchell felt it, saw himself as hapless observer and thought that might be his role for life.

He has certainly observed me a lot.

Of course his fears didn't come to pass. Things evened out over the course of time. And now that they were grown and Mitchell "doing better," Will having problems in his life with Josephine, the younger brother gloated.

In their twenties, Will lived out of town and on visits he'd leave for the evening and then be back introducing someone new. "This is ____." He took his romances so casually Mitchell said his apartment "felt like a hotel."

And how did his girlfriends see Mitchell? As a cute standby, extra on the scene- maybe an adorable one; he explained they were usually very nice to him- but as a boy rather than a man.

Mitchell wasn't unattractive, just not a standout like his older brother.

Remember? Brody, Will's friend in the music industry, left shortly after Will revealed he was pursuing Saki, my studio-mate (no connection between the two events). In the moments that followed his departure, the give and take between Will and Mitchell quickly became heated and put the friends visiting with Will in an uncomfortable position. At first they'd reacted with amusement but I saw their smiles fade one after another; they withdrew, maybe for fear of being asked to choose sides in the argument. Even those who knew Will and Mitchell best couldn't tell whether the anger on display was genuine. At times the pair seemed openly hostile to each other. Brothers play-fight.

Will defended himself. I sided with him, though I disliked his cheating on Josephine.

"You've got Midori, so why are you worried about who I go out with?"

"You brought this up," Mitchell reminded him.

"Maybe I was interested in your wife's perspective."

He hadn't asked for it.

"You broadcast your news to all of us. Ha ha. 'I may have an adventure on my hands. Advice, anyone?'"

Mitchell quoted in order to ridicule.

"And it doesn't sound like you're actually going out with her."

"She invited me to the studio to see her paintings."

"And what, you were going to ask Midori to be there as chaperone?"

"That would be up to Saki. And Midori."

Will could laugh at his own expense. Have I mentioned it's something I liked about him?

Mitchell took another glass of wine and interrupted the talk with Will to speak with about his photography (observing me- rubbing that in to his brother) in black and white. He described the last night he used his darkroom, developed photographs from his film camera.

I was there. It was still the beginning, after we'd made our big physical breakthrough. He wanted to show me things from his past life.

He hadn't taken out the equipment in a while and there was a lot. It wasn't clear to him he still had everything he needed- some of the stuff was permanent- trays, measuring devices- but chemicals ran out if not replenished.

There were two kinds of developing baths, he explained, one for negatives and the other for prints. He opened the storage space under the kitchen counter to see if it contained both. The white powder looked the same. Markings on the packets distinguished them.

He laughed and said he'd almost hoped something was missing so he wouldn't be able to set up the darkroom after all. "It was such a pain." Hard work to get just a few good pictures, if he was lucky, he told us.

But he'd really wanted to see what was on some rolls of film he'd shot traveling and had never gotten around to processing.

"There was a shot in particular I couldn't leave unseen, of a woman in a white dress- white in the negative; of course it would be dark when printed. I couldn't remember how she'd looked or would in the photo, only that there'd be something very compelling about her. She stood by a tree but against background of open space, as in some tale of romance and intrigue- the image suggested a whole history; you know how some can; those are the really good ones; well, unspeakable beauty- she and the environment she pulled into her or that seemed to have created her by some kind of spontaneous generation- she was really lovely, unutterably- you couldn't explain it in words, only an image would do, and I thought I had one.

Then Mitchell talked about photographing some people playing "paint ball" by some cliffs, blue powder exploding on the rock face. "They promised it didn't harm the environment- as if expecting criticism from me."

I also remembered that night. After his hours in the darkroom he was exhausted but still energetic enough for sex, revived in bed, spoke about photographing me.

"I want- sometime- to see how the new camera renders you doing mouth play."

I didn't answer, knew he had more to say.

He did, justified it this way. "That's a lot of the reason I bought the camera."

Was he suggesting I'd be to blame- for his making an expensive purchase in vain- if I didn't give him the images he wanted (stills, video, audio?) of my "mouth play," as he put it? That seemed an unfair coercion and reflected the intensity of his desire. I wanted to object, "Just ask. You don't have to try tricking me into it," but also felt for him.

I laughed softly, not scoffing at his request but embarrassed, needing to react but not sure how to.

"Can I sometime?" he asked.

"Sometime," I said.

"It would just be your mouth. Abstract, really. Your mouth and that thing. Ha ha."

"That thing?"

"My thing."

"..."

"Fighting."

"Fighting?"

"Yeah, like Godzilla and Mothra."

He compared me going down on him to a classic science fiction movie from my country, the battle between two monsters, monsters but endowed with characters, both sad and lovely, a little as Mitchell had described the photos of the women in the white dress (print still washing).

He continued, "The best pose is you coming directly from the front."

"Ha ha."

"I'd like you in that animal print top, black and white, I think it is. I'm not sure."

"Black and white," I confirmed, knew which he meant.

"I'd really like to photograph that," Mitchell said, a note of pleading or coercion in his voice.

"Some time," I said.

"So you're not saying never."

"No."

"That's good. I'd like it soon. Like tomorrow, after the gym, shower."

I remembered Mitchell went down on me that night (to show he wasn't only selfish?) How could I forget?

I wrote a diary when I saw my life changing, like a big gear swinging me out into new open space, new vista, to record the vertigo and excitement and wonder and misgivings. Was this it? Would I survive or go careening..?

It was when he put his hand under my shirt that he got excited. Moving downward, he paused repeatedly to tweeze my breast between two fingers, softly getting hold of my flesh, feeling the shape and texture. I felt him grow very big and hard under my hand.

I felt it was all happening behind a green mesh, our shapes blurred, darkened. Was that because he'd shown me photographs in black and white? And who was she?

He sent his hand down. He liked the line between my bush and my belly, feeling the difference between the hair and the skin. Fingers lowered, one hooked in, then another, bringing wet sounds in rhythm- everyone knows how this is- the ball of his hand still working the top of the bush, jogging left and right and in circles. My mouth opened to his.

I had nothing to say and neither did he.

I remember

He pushed my breasts together from the outside to make them easier to kiss.

Our smells filled the room, the space over the bed, at least, like a tent we were in.

Why should everything be like something else?

Why couldn't we talk? Why should we?

My wet thighs attracted him.

"This is what I want," he said when he was down between my legs, his own off the foot of the bed.

He held my hips from beneath and encouraged me to roll them, up to him. He made wolf sounds.

"Suddenly."

"What?" he asked.

"Orgasm."

He'd swiveled onto our sides to get more on his mouth, wolfing, his hand up grasping at my bust. I came that way.

"How long are you too sensitive afterward?" he asked as we lay back, my breath still ringing with what had happened.

"Not long."

"That's a surprise, based on my experience with other women." He thought he'd have to wait to penetrate, but I was ready.

"Can I use my mouth?" I said.

"Not now. "

"I want to."

"Another time."

"You don't want?"

"I want to go inside now."

"Too sensitive."

"You just said you weren't. Ha ha."

"..."

I caressed his penis and he moaned.

"I really want to go inside." In his voice was the same note of pleading and coercion as when he asked to photograph me in "mouth play."

"Just a little."

He came on top.

"Just a little? Is that possible?" I asked with a laugh.

"Don't move," he said, and I stayed still to let him go in. I think he worried if I'd moved he would have come right away. We were still new to each other.

My legs came over his shoulders and we both moved.

He came soon and so strongly, from all the way inside, that I did too. His voice also jettisoned, sharply and long, as if he were a different person than the one I knew, his mouth had been jammed open by some unseen mechanism outside his control, as if it were designed for this purpose, to yell.

"Too fast," he said, laughing. "Suddenly." He borrowed the word I'd used after I orgasmed before. I was glad he remembered.

Afterward he handed me tissue.

"More," I said and pointed to the deep wet place on the sheer, dark shaped like something aquatic, a streak widened in the center, tapering, oily, sodden, deep in the sheets, something put there in a flash, at nature's speed. I left it there. The eye couldn't penetrate. A tissue wouldn't have reached all the way in.

"Let me sleep on that side." Mitchell offered to change places so I wouldn't lie in the pool.

"That's okay. I wear pajamas."

We weren't living together yet, still didn't know each other's sleeping habits.

Will went on. Just fun or not, the argument wasn't finished to his satisfaction.

"You're missing a he said or she said or they said."

Mitchell: "What do you mean?"

Will: "I mean I haven't done anything wrong, yet you're on my case."

Mitchell: "I'm just saying watch who you fool around with. Saki- whatever her name is- is not some toy."

"She can take care of herself," I commented.

Will: "Oh, is that how you saw Midori at first, as a toy? Ha ha."

"Come on," I said. I felt my heart pounding, didn't want this.

"Do you think you're worthy of her?" Mitchell asked (Saki, he meant).

"Do you think you are of her?" (Me, Will meant).

"You've both had too much to drink," Mitchell's boss Ray put in.

"Not hardly," Mitchell said. I'd never heard him use that expression. Maybe it was from when they were kids.

"We're just getting started," Will said. And then both broke into loud laughter- that was like the drop of a conductor's baton inviting everyone else to join.

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by Anonymous12/04/18

You're doing great.

But these people in your life, while great foils for writing purposes, are so small, petty, self absorbed, I wonder how you can stand it. It's bizarre that the bros can talk this way about their matesmore...

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